


A Kingsman Advent Calendar (2018)

by bearfeathers



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, One Word Prompts, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: A fic per day for the month of December, all from Christmas themed one word prompts.





	1. North Star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/gifts).



> Please make sure to check out the partner to this collection written by [Lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804579)! Many of these little drabbles will tie into our established fanon in [Photographs and Memories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165312)/[As Heavy as a History Book Can Be](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105). It's not absolutely necessary to read them, but some events and characters may be unfamiliar to you otherwise.
> 
> Anyway, we hope you enjoy, and as always, views are good, kudos are great, but comments keep the lamps lit. If you like what you read, please let us know! Every little comment counts. :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin finds his first Christmas after V-Day to be more challenging than he thought it would be.

**[DECEMBER 24TH, 2014]**

The air is cool and crisp, the grounds silent and still as they lie beneath a thick layer of undisturbed snow like a child tucked into bed for the evening. Merlin's breath rises in thick plumes, dissipating as they drift upwards towards the clear night sky. It feels colder than it had in previous winters, though he suspects that may just be his imagination.

He hears the French doors open and close nearly silently. If he hadn't known Martin for as long as he had—hadn't trained him as he had—he would never have noticed anyone had joined him. But things being as they are, he can feel the other man's presence come up from behind him almost like a sixth sense.

At first Martin says nothing, leaving them in companionable silence to observe the winter landscape that seemed to have come from brush strokes of Thomas Kinkade. Of course, the silence can only last so long; Martin had come out here with an agenda, he knows. Being that he's been stuck like a limpet to the side of the still-recovering former Lancelot, it must have been important to pry him away.

Merlin only hopes it's not for what he thinks it is. (Though he's sure it is.)

"It's cold out," Martin remarks.

"Mm," Merlin agrees.

"You ought not spend too long out here," Martin adds. "You're not dressed for it."

Despite himself, Merlin chuckles. "Has Mags sent you after me?"

"No," Martin says simply.

They lapse into silence once more. Martin is not the overly demonstrative sort and therefore Merlin knows that's precisely what's keeping him from getting to what he's come to say. In other instances, Merlin would be hoping that he'd manage to overcome that hurdle. In this case, he prays he doesn't.

He focuses on the sky instead, hoping the moment will pass and spare him from the conversation he's dreading. But even in the stars he finds no peace. How dare the North Star shine so brightly when his own has been extinguished? How dare it offer the guise of guidance and still leave him so directionless?

"Merlin, if there's anything—"

"No," Merlin says, firmly cutting him off. "I'm fine."

"...Merlin." A quieter intonation, almost begging him to allow himself help, to allow them in.

"It's the first Christmas without him, we knew it would be difficult," Merlin says. "I'm fine."

"You aren't," Martin argues.

Unwittingly he feels whatever it is he's kept inside him bubble up and over the rim like a cauldren set too long to boil. He desperately wishes he didn't feel these ugly things; this bitterness and resentment and anger. But wishing does nothing to help him now.

"Martin, I understand what you're trying to do, but I'm only going to say it once: leave me be," Merlin says tightly.

"That's the last thing you need," Martin tells him.

"Oh, and you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Merlin snaps.

"Yes, I would," Martin says, raising his voice to match Merlin's. "Because I've been where you are, if you'll recall."

"But you're not there anymore, are you?" Merlin nearly shouts at him. "Because yours came back!"

To his credit, Martin doesn't shy away from Merlin's temper, nor does his flare to match. Instead he meets Merlin with that cool, impassive gaze that he's come to be known for. Merlin doubts there are many people besides himself capable of seeing his comment had struck a nerve.

"Yes. He did," Martin says at last. "But it doesn't change the fact that he _was_ gone. Nor does it change the fact that I did everything in my power to be alone and you refused to allow it. I'd have been quite happy to drink myself into an early grave but you meddled with that, too, didn't you?"

"You've made your point," Merlin replies testily. "Now go back inside."

"No," Martin says. "I'm quite happy where I am, thank you."

Merlin could nearly throttle him for his stubbornness, but then, part of it had come from the very man Merlin is mourning. It's true he must have seemed insufferable to Martin then. But after having found him on the floor of his home with what was later determined to be alcohol poisioning following James's death, Merlin hadn't been willing to take any chances. He knows Martin is trying to do the same for him now. It doesn't stop him from resenting it.

Nor does it stop him from needing it.

Merlin sighs, reaching up under his glasses to press his fingers into stinging eyes in a bid to keep them dry. He doesn't want this. Not now. Not on a day where they're all supposed to be happy. But how can he truly be happy when...

"I feel like a sailor at sea and the North Star's just gone out," Merlin says.

"There are other stars to steer by," Martin says. "They may not be a replacement for the North Star but they're there none the less, if you need them."

"But how are you supposed to do that when it's always been there? When you've always relied on it to set your course, how are you supposed to... to..." Merlin asks thickly, his voice wavering. He feels the sob welling in up in his chest and swallows it back down, unwilling to let it free. "Christ, how am I supposed to do it without him?"

There's no answer for him, just a hand on his arm, squeezing as tightly as it seems proper to do so. Martin offers his handkerchief, standing watch as Merlin blubbers like a child for a man he'd loved longer than he can remember and who'd left him before they could ever see their relationship out in the open as anything more than "maybe someday." He cries for "could have been" and "never again" and all that's in between. He cries for a man who had always seemed to have the devil's luck, just not this time. He cries for a good man with a good heart, who could never quite see himself as good enough for Merlin despite many reassurances. He cries for a man who was a far better man than he gave himself credit for.

"Let's go back inside," Martin says quietly as Merlin dries his eyes. "I'll make you a cup of tea."

Merlin nods silently, feeling a hand on his back as they pass through the doors and back into the blessed warmth of the house. Smiling faces greet him and he finds himself tucked into a plush sofa beside Lucy. She doesn't say a word, just listens to the conversation flowing around them and tightly squeezes his hand. She knows. She understands.

His North Star is gone and that will take time to accept. But looking around him, Merlin knows Martin had been right; there are stars yet to steer by.


	2. Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone's first Christmas occurs in childhood.

Lucy watches as Mickey stares at the ornament in his hand, a look of consternation plastered on his face as though he were a gingerbread man and it had been drawn in icing. It doesn't surprise her. It's the first time he's celebrated Christmas and she's sure that—much like his brother—most of the holiday's traditions are lost on him.

"I just don't understand why we decorate a tree," Mickey declares.

"Well, we know the Pagans used fir trees during the winter solstice to remind them of the spring ahead of them," Lucy explains, winding garland around her hand. "Christians believe them to be a symbol of Christ and the tree of life."

"But I don't believe we have any Pagans in Kingsman," Mickey hums. "And even Christians appear to be in short supply."

"A good deal of people don't celebrate Christmas in the religious sense," Lucy says. "Whether you do or not, it's meant to be a bright spot in winter. It's meant to remind us how lucky we are to have our loved ones and to love those who may not be as blessed."

It doesn't seem to entirely answer his question but he doesn't probe her for further answers. Undoubtedly he'll bury himself in the library and research the subject on his own time.

"At the very least I suppose I'm glad that Arthur agreed to opt for live trees," Mickey says with a firm nod.

Lucy doesn't bother to hide her smile. Mickey had put up quite the fuss when he'd discovered Christmas trees were generally chopped down before being brought inside. In his own words, he found it distasteful that they were meant to "truss up its corpse and then put it out with the trash when we're through." Harry had patiently heard out his complaint and had suggested an alternative; live trees which could be planted on the grounds when the Christmas season had ended. The plan had met with Mickey's approval and he'd personally made sure all the trees in their headquarters were being adequately watered.

"You're a lot like Martin," Lucy chuckles.

"I'm aware," Mickey says flatly.

She's sure he's tired of being compared to his brother but it can hardly be helped. He's nearly a carbon copy of Martin at that age and she supposes she's feeling a little nostalgic—more-so, perhaps, with Christmas upon them.

"I know you're not him," she assures him. "You're still markedly different from him when he was your age. I suppose you could just say I'm something like old woman who's had another child after hers have all grown."

Mickey seems to chew on that briefly. "Did you ever have children of your own?"

The question startles her a bit, if she's being honest. It's not a question she was asked frequently. Even when it was, she tended to simply answer no, she hadn't had any biological children. But perhaps that shouldn't be the case here. Mickey has been open and vulnerable since coming to them and she knows despite how much more well adjusted he is than Martin had been, it's still been frustrating. Perhaps a a little vulnerability of her own is for the best.

"Almost, once," she tells him, bringing the garland over the tree. "But no."

"Why didn't you?" Mickey asks, helping her string the garland along the branches.

"Relationships were never allowed in Kingsman. But that didn't stop some of us from wanting them all the same," Lucy says. She weaves the garland with a delicate hand, evenly distributing it among the lush branches. "I found out I was pregnant. We planned to leave together and start a family. It was something we'd never considered before, but a child changes things and it was a child we both wanted."

Mickey watches with rapt attention as she speaks. When she turns her head, she can see in his eyes that he knows. But he says nothing, perhaps wondering if it's polite to do so.

"I miscarried two months into the pregnancy," Lucy says. "It had been a chance happening in the first place and it felt as though that were a sign that it simply wasn't meant to be. Not with the way things were."

"...I'm sorry," Mickey says, his voice subdued and soft.

"I've made my peace with it," she says. She smiles at him. "I've had plenty of children despite that."

He doesn't flinch from her the way Martin had when she rests a hand atop his head. He's more open, less afraid of people trying to get close to him. She's glad for that, glad that Mortimer hadn't damaged him in all the ways he had Martin. She's glad he'd thought to give Mickey more freedom under the mistaken assumption that he'd be less likely to rebel and run off as his brother had.

Thinking the time appropriate, she reaches into the pocket of her lab coat to retrieve the small box she'd stashed there. She holds it out to him and he looks at it as though she'd just held out a live grenade. Still, he gingerly takes the box from her and holds it in both hands, peering at it curiously.

"What's this?" he asks.

"Open it and see," Lucy instructs him. "I'd planned to give it to you later, but where we're decorating the trees, I thought it might be more appropriate now."

Mickey slowly lifts the lid off the box and stares at the contents. He seems perplexed, not saying a word as his eyes pick it apart like a puzzle. It's a simple ornament in a soft baby blue, his name and the year etched in white beneath the words "My First Christmas."

"Typically you'd have this made for a baby," Lucy says. "But in this case I thought we should make an exception. I know it's a bit of an odd gift. You don't have to keep it if you don't care for it."

Mickey doesn't say anything for a time. He continues to stand as still as a statue, looking at the ornament in the box as though trying to decipher it like some ancient artifact. Just when she's thinking to say something, he suddenly looks up, tilting his head back to look at the tree they'd been decorating.

"Can I put it on the tree?" he asks.

She smiles, placing a hand on his back. "Put it wherever you'd like."


	3. Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Jack wanted was to save Tequila from looking like reject from Santa's Village.

Sure it's December and all, so it's natural to see people getting festive, but you have to draw the line somewhere. In Whiskey's opinion, Tequila's never seen that line in his damn life.

"What in the _hell_ are you wearing?" Jack demands as Lee comes sauntering into the barroom.

The younger agent is decked from head to toe in a bright red and green, cowboy boots and all. Jack's sure his horror must show on his face, but it doesn't seem to dampen the feisty Tequila's spirits one bit. In fact, the damn fool actually looks proud of himself.

"It's my holiday attire," Lee says. "I got a date tonight and I'm looking to impress."

"...well, I'm positive you'll leave an impression," Jack says, looking him up and down. He really had better put a stop to this before the idiot ventures into public looking like some yuletide monstrosity. "Now, I'm gonna be honest with you and I'm saying this for your sake; that getup is ugly as sin."

Lee snorts and rolls his eyes. "You don't know jack about Christmas, Jack."

"That may be up for debate," Jack replies, "but what I do know is women. Ain't no woman gonna see you looking like that and stick around."

At least... he assumed it was a woman. Probably a poor assumption to make considering he knows very well that particular cowboy's barroom door swings both ways. Well, whoever he's seeing tonight doesn't matter, that outfit isn't gonna fly either way. And yet the younger man doesn't seem at all bothered by Jack's words. In fact, he's looking rather smug for some reason.

"You know," Lee says, a broad grin slapped on his face, "I may be the one all dressed up, but I'd say you're the one that's green here."

Jack snorts. Yeah. Right. Not him, buddy.

"I mean with envy," Lee clarifies. "You know, 'cause—"

"Yeah, I _got it_ ," Jack snaps at him.

If anything, the little flash off temper only seems to spur Lee on. All of a sudden he comes sauntering over, stopping only once he's in front of Jack. But he doesn't stop there. Lee leans in until the edge of the bar is digging into Jack's back and he has nowhere else to go, his face growing warm at the other man's proximity. Just when Jack's about to demand what the hell he thinks he's doing, Lee reaches up and flicks the brim of Jack's hat up, exposing his face.

"And now you're red, too," he says with a smirk.

Jack slaps his hand away, but Lee jumps back out of reach before he can do anything else. The younger man laughs as he turns and heads towards the exit, giving him a wave without looking back.

"It looks good on you, Jack!" he calls.

Standing at the bar, Jack watches him leave and watches the door long after he's gone. Then, picking up his glass, he downs his drink in one go before stalking out of the room, trying to convince himself the burning in his guts is just the alcohol.

* * *

It would be great if Jack could have the smug satisfaction of at least seeing Tequila looking down after a failed date, but it doesn't seem as though _anything_ can take the wind from his sails. So when he sidles on up to the bar while Jack's doing his crosswords, there doesn't seem to be much to be said about it.

"...you done lookin' like a chicken fried elf?" Jack asks.

Well, he was going to say _something_ , let's be honest.

"Yeah, I suppose so," Lee answers, nodding to the barkeep as his drink is placed before him. "Just didn't work out. She was a sweet girl an' all, we just agreed a second date wasn't in the cards."

"You think your outfit had anything to do with that?"

Lee snorts. "Yeah right. That outfit's fly and you know it."

Jack rolls his eyes and sips his drink. "We'll agree to disagree on that one."

Minutes pass in silence with only the scritch of Jack's pen and the occasional sounds of settling ice from Lee's drink. Jack stares down that the paper in front of him, tapping his pen in thought. Not over the crossword but rather what's in his coat pocket. He'd been fairly sure of himself when he'd bought it, thinking he'd be cheering up a moping Tequila. Now he's not quite so sure.

Aw, hell, no sense in keeping the damn thing. He reaches into his pocket and thrusts the offering at Lee without looking.

"What's this?" Lee asks, taking it curiously.

"What does it look like, stupid? It's a tie, isn't it?" Jack grumbles.

Lee looks it over with an amused smile on his face. Jack had seen it when he'd been out hunting for a gift for his mother-in-law. Or former mother-in-law. Frankly, he's not sure how that works for a widower. Anyway, the smart green tie with little candy canes etched into it had screamed Tequila at him and he couldn't help himself.

"That's real nice, Jack. Thanks," Lee says softly.

"Don't go looking into it or nothin'," Jack says defensively. "I just figured if you wanted to show some holiday spirit, there are ways of doing it without looking like something Santa shit out."

Lee actually laughs at that and Jack hates how it pleases him. It wasn't supposed to be like that. Lee rests his elbows on the bar and nudges jack with his shoulder.

"Hey, how about we go out sometime?" Lee asks.

Jack nearly sprays his crossword with a mouthful of 1983 Statesman reserve. Apparently Lee cottons onto his panic pretty quickly, because he jumps right into an explanation.

"I mean, not like a date. Just out," Lee clarifies. "You said it yourself, you know women. Maybe you could give me some pointers over dinner."

Jack's no idiot. He knows a come on when he sees it. And—much as he hates to admit it—it's not that he isn't interested, it's just... too soon. The Polaroid stashed under the brim of his hat is a constant reminder of that. Champ's tried to talk him into getting back out there; says Jack shouldn't be spending so much time alone. But he can't do it when even looking at someone else still feels like cheating.

Deep down, he knows Beau is right. It's not healthy dwelling on what happened for years on years. It's not healthy curling up at night with a bottle over a person. But he just... He just can't. Maybe that makes him a coward. It definitely makes him a fool. But he's not about to go breaking Lee's back with all his baggage.

"Maybe some other time," Jack mumbles.

He can see in Lee's face that he understands what Jack's saying and it kills him to see a little flicker of disappointment in the younger man's eyes. But, as with all things, he takes it in stride and merely nods to himself. He finishes off his drink before giving Jack a healthy clap on the back. His hand lingers there, squeezing gently and leaving a warmth that Jack manages to feel through his clothing.

"Alright, no rush," Lee says. "You just lemme know when, Jack."

"Yeah," Jack mumbles. "Alright."

"Well, I got some shopping left to do," Lee declares. "But I'll see you at the Christmas party, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there," Jack replies.

"Alright then," Lee says with a grin.

He wanders back out the way he'd come, leaving Jack alone at the bar. Jack stares at the half-empty glass sitting in front of him, hesitating before reaching for it.

Maybe someday.


	4. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all gifts are the kind you can hold in your hands.

**[DECEMBER 25TH, 2015]**

Eggsy doesn't think Martin hates him, but he's sure the stoic Percival's feelings aren't far from it. Roxy's assured him that's very far from the truth—and that it's silly of him to find her uncle "scary"—but he's not sure how to tell his best friend that her view is a bit biased. Martin had made it clear that he didn't think Eggsy worthy of the title Harry had formerly carried. Not that Eggsy necessarily disagreed with him; there was a great weight that came with being called "Galahad" and often times he found himself struggling beneath it.

Apparently the cool facade Martin wore was one he presented to everyone. But with Eggsy it seemed to take on an edge much frostier than that. Which is why it surprises him when Martin approaches him on Christmas with a small wrapped parcel in hand.

"...what is it?" Eggsy asks, eyeing it like a concealed bomb.

"You could always open it and find out," Martin remarks dryly.

Alright, that's fair.

He takes the offered parcel, still glancing at Martin suspiciously and half-expecting it to be some sort of test. Martin seemed overly fond of putting him through his paces, often striking when he least expected. But as he pulls the neat wrapping away all he finds is... a book.

" _The Name of the Rose_?" Eggsy reads aloud, the title falling off his tongue in a curious tone.

"It was gifted to me by Gal—... by Harry," Martin says, quickly correcting himself. "It had been gifted to him by the former Lancelot."

Eggsy watches his attention shift briefly to Roxy and James, seated by the fireplace and playing with James's bulldog, Clancy. Martin clears his throat and refocuses on him, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"Or former-former Lancelot, I should say," he says.

"Oh," Eggsy says dumbly. He really isn't sure what else he can say to something like that.

"Personally, I prefer the original Italian text but the English should suffice, considering you don't speak Italian," Martin says, almost boredly. "Besides which I thought you might appreciate the fact that this copy was... his."

Not for the first time, Eggsy is reminded that he isn't the only one who misses Harry. In the grand scheme of things, he'd known the man for a much shorter period of time than most of the people in the room. Martin may have an odd way of showing it, but he misses Harry every bit as much as Eggsy does. Or at least... Eggsy thinks he does. Christ Almighty this man is hard to read.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," Eggsy says earnestly. "Thanks, Percival."

"'Martin' will do," the older man replies.

Just like that, Eggsy is back on his guard. Now this _has_ to be a test. Martin had curtly corrected him every time he'd addressed him by anything other than his codename. No reason to think he's gone soft just because it's Christmas.

At Eggsy's hesitation, Martin seems to shift uncomfortably. A line of tension appears in his shoulders as his gaze slides to the side. 

"It's been brought to my attention that I may have been... unduly harsh on you," Martin says slowly.

Eggsy's sure he must be gaping like a fish. Martin almost sounds _guilty_.

"Uh..." is all Eggsy can muster.

Martin's gaze finds Eggsy once more and Eggsy swears he sees the hint of a smile twitching at his lips.

"Roxanne gave me a proper dressing down," he admits. 

"Look, I'm sure she's just—"

"Entirely correct," Martin cuts him off. "I've projected my dissatisfaction with the events of the past year onto your claim on your title. Wrongly so. I'll endeavor to do better in the future."

In other words, he'd taken his grief over Harry out on Eggsy. Not that he'd put it that way. But Eggsy takes the apology for what it is without question.

"Thanks," Eggsy replies. He stares down at the book in his hands. "What's so important about this book, though? I mean the story, not where it came from."

Martin seems to deliberate on what to tell him before saying anything.

"It's an important tale of mentor and student," he explains. "And does well to teach us to learn to accept our failures. Especially those which are out of our control."

_It wasn't your fault._

_There was nothing you could have done._

Eggsy thinks he may as well have said those things outright. But he's not surprised they were buried in much less emotional terms. Roxy insists he has a soft spot underneath his prickly exterior and Eggsy's starting to understand what she's talking about. Eggsy nods down at the book in his hands, gripping it just a little bit tighter.

"Got it," he says, shooting the older man a grin. "Can't wait to read it."

"I hope you'll take good care of it," Martin says with a nod. "I should mention that's the second book I received from Harry."

"What was the first?" Eggsy asks.

"A work by Kant," Martin says. "He kindly asked me not to put a bullet through this one."

Eggsy snorts a laugh. "You'll have to tell me the story behind that one sometime, Perce."

Martin shoots him a level stare. "Martin."

"Right, uh... 'Martin' then," Eggsy says, scratching the back of his head.

Alright, so nicknames were still a no-go then. Still, as Martin pats him on the shoulder before making for the group gathered by the fireplace, Eggsy thinks this is progress. He may have been given a book, but he finds he's much more thankful for the gift that came with it.


	5. Snowflake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you ask Eggsy, a Christmas without snow isn't a Christmas worth having.

"Not a single fucking snowflake!" Eggsy grouses, face pressed to the glass of the window.

"Eggsy, not in front of your sister," Michelle warns him, checking on the goose in the oven.

"The first Christmas where all of us are here together and there's no snow," Eggsy says as though he hasn't heard his mother. "This is bollocks."

"Bollocks," Daisy echoes, scribbling in her coloring book.

" _Eggsy_ ," Michelle says firmly.

It's not the first time his foul language had failed to escape his sister's notice and it wouldn't be the last. He did his best to watch what he said, of course, but there was still the occasional slip up. Especially now when what he was trying to make sure would be the perfect Christmas isn't feeling very perfect at all. What's a Christmas without snow? 

"Sorry, sorry," Eggsy says with a wince. He walks over and presses a kiss to the top of his sister's head. "Add that one to the bad list, alright?"

"Okay," Daisy says readily.

She may have agreed to add it to the list of words she shouldn't use, but Eggsy knows damn well he'll be hearing it again in the near future. As Daisy grew older, he saw more and more that he wasn't the only one who could be a stubborn little shit. Michelle insists it's Eggsy's influence that's the cause of it but he thinks she's conveniently overlooking a common denominator.

"Babe, you're supposed to be practicing," Tilde says, emerging from the stairway with a mischievous grin.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," Eggsy apologizes, kissing her sweetly as she joins him. He rests a proud hand on the little bump in her belly and grins back at her. "How we doing today?"

"Surprisingly not as nauseous as I thought I'd be," Tilde declares thoughtfully. "A Christmas miracle."

Eggsy can still sometimes barely believe they're going to parents. He hardly feels ready but, according to everyone he's spoken to, if you wait until you're ready then you'll never have kids. So far the pregnancy has been fairly smooth, though his poor wife seemed to get sick at the worst times. Most notably was when Harry and Merlin had hosted them for dinner and she'd vomited Harry's perfectly cooked roast onto his shoes. Harry had taken it in stride though, with a surprising level of grace considering Eggsy knew him to be something of a neat freak (and a little bit of a germaphobe).

"Well, we could use at least one more of those," Eggsy grouses.

"Aw, still no snow?" Tilde asks, patting his head.

"It's _important_ ," he says insistently.

Is he the only one with any sense around here? He must be. How can everyone be fine with a Christmas without snow?

"Let's set the table and give it some time," Tilde says. "We've still got the whole day ahead of us, so maybe you'll see some snow yet."

Not bloody likely, in his opinion.

* * *

"Well, Eggsy, you wanted snow," Tilde remarks as they all peer out the window.

"Yeah, but I mean... Just a dusting," Eggsy mumbles. "You know, just enough to make it white."

"It's certainly white," Martin observes dryly.

Eggsy supposes beggars can't be choosers, but looking at the three feet (and still accumulating) of snow outside gives him the feeling this may just be karma for all his complaining. Still, he did get what he wished for. Even if there's just a bit too much of it.

"Have fun shoveling that," Merlin declares, patting Eggsy and Harry on the shoulder.

Harry shoots his partner a look that's saltier than the pork they'd just eaten while Eggsy merely gawks.

"What? I'm not going out there!" he protests.

"It's hardly going to shovel itself, sweetheart," Michelle chips in.

He knows she's right, just as he knows if they don't start in on it now, it'll be an even more monstrous task later. That still doesn't make him want to go out and do it. Eggsy pulls a face as a group of them proceeds to bundle up and prepare to tackle the winter wonderland currently blocking the front door. The winter wonderland that he'd apparently brought down upon them. Feeling the sting of icy air as James opens the door, Eggsy huddles further into his jacket with an annoyed sigh.

"Happy Christmas to me."


	6. Icicles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Spencer is one of the most sought after matchmakers in Hogwarts. Wes just wants to put up Christmas decorations. James has other plans. (Harry Potter AU)

Wes Wallace loves Christmas decorations. Considering he happens to be rather handy with Charms, he's one of the students Professor Flitwick has allowed to assist with decorating the Great Hall. At the moment, he's conjuring everlasting icicles to hang tastefully from the many available ledges. Typically, this wouldn't be a problem. In fact he's sure he would otherwise be enjoying himself we're it not for the fact that the object of his affections is currently assisting Flitwick on the other side of the hall.

"Ask her to go to Hogsmeade with you," James says to his right.

"Shut up!" Wes hisses at his fellow Hufflepuff.

"Why? You know she'll say yes, right?" James prods.

Letting out a low groan, Wes does his best to focus on his work. He knows he'll get no relief from his friend. Despite having just arrived to Hogwarts the previous year, James Spencer is already one of the most sought after matchmakers and notorious flirts in Hogwarts. Typically, it was safe to say that if he was telling you a relationship would work out, it would. It's just... well... Wes is nervous.

"Can we just focus on decorating?" Wes pleads.

"Leave him be, James," Merlin chips in.

"It's for his own good," James insists. "I'm trying to help him."

"It's not something you should really push someone into," Remus advises him. "If he wants to, he'll do it in his own time."

"Could we please not talk about me like I'm not right here?" Wes asks, his face red.

Even if James is right, Kalpana Bhargava isn't a girl you just walk up to and ask out. The Slytherin girl is not only gorgeous, she's talented both in her studies and on the quidditch pitch, not to mention ridiculously popular among girls from all four Houses. But if there's one thing he and James have in common, it's being hopelessly gone on a Slytherin. James's affections for quiet, aloof Martin Gainsborough are a secret to absolutely no one. It had earned him his fair share of criticism—including from his closest friends. Hardly surprising with the way Martin had turned on them. Still, he could understand, at least.

And Wes wasn't the only one James had been leaning on to confess his feelings. Poor Merlin had it even worse than him. It seemed like any time the two of them were together sans Harry, James was trying to needle him into confessing to the aforementioned Gryffindor. Personally, Wes is of the opinion that they'd make a smart match, but he feels too much solidarity with Merlin to say anything. They're both trapped in the eye of the storm that is James Spencer and they have to stick together if they want to graduate with their lives and dignity intact.

"With Christmas coming up, you have the perfect opportunity," James says, nodding to himself as he waves his wand through the air. "Asking her to walk with you to Hogsmeade is romantic. She'll love it."

"I can't, I have exams to study for," Wes says hurriedly. "And can you keep it down? She could hear us."

"Good!" James says. "Come on, Wes. Trust the legilimens here, I've got a one hundred percent clearance rate. I'm never wrong."

" _Almost_ never," Merlin clarifies.

"That thing with Liam McCallister was a one off," James huffs. "You can't expect to get an accurate response if you slip a love potion in her pumpkin juice."

"Which I don't endorse at all," Remus says with a wince, "but watching her throw a ladleful of Bulgeye Potion in his face was... uncomfortable. The effects, not the throwing; that part I actually enjoyed."

"And like I said, a fluke," James protests. "Trust me, Wes. You won't regret it."

"Won't regret what?"

Wes nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice directly behind him. Whirling around, he finds himself face-to-face with Kalpana and his tongue shrivels up in his mouth. She looks to him expectantly, an amused smile on her face and he fumbles for words.

" _Kalpana! Hi!_ " he says, far too loudly.

She grins at his awkward greeting, a hand on her hip as she twirls her wand idly in the other.

"Hi," she answers. "Professor Flitwick said you're the man to talk to about creating everlasting icicles. Think you could teach me?"

Wes swears he sees James shoot the Charms professor a grin and a thumbs up from the corner of his eye, but he could just be imagining things in his blind panic. He can't seem to get his mouth working. Oh, god. He's going to embarrass himself. He looks to Merlin on his left, almost as though asking permission. Or silently screaming for help.

"I'd definitely say Wes makes the best out of all of us," Merlin agrees with a nod. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind showing you."

Merlin elbows him in an effort oo shake him from his stupor and Wes manages to croak something in response, nodding his head.

"Sure. No problem," he says almost breathlessly.

He places a hand on the table behind him in an effort to look cool leaning against it, when in reality he's using it to hold himself up. He's fairly certain it does _not_ look cool. But if he doesn't he's positive his wobbly legs will fail him.

"So... So first we should probably—"

He doesn't hear the shouting of some fellow students, focused on getting his explanation of the charm out without stuttering too much. Apparently the tree they were trying to levitate up onto a pedestal had knocked into some of his icicles, which were now plummetting towards the ground. But Wes, of course, doesn't realize this. His first clue that something isn't right comes from the sharp pain in his hand and the horrified gasps from his friends.

Turning his head winds up being a very bad idea. He gets a quick glance of an icicle sticking into the back of his hand, pinning it to the table, before he immediately looks away. Oh, god. Oh, god there's blood. He tries to laugh it off in some vain effort to reassure the others, but the sound emerges strangled and bordering on hysteric.

"It's fine," he declares, voice cracking. He's not sure if it's for himself or everyone else. "Completely fine. Just absolutely... Fine. Fine. I'm fine."

"Wes, I think you're in shock," Merlin declares, holding his hands out in front of him as though approaching a frightened animal. "Professor Flitwick is going to remove the icicle so why don't you just sit down?"

"Yes. Good. Excellent suggestion," Wes answers, slowly lowering himself onto the bench. 

Kalpana stands before him with a hand over her mouth and even James is looking a bit green around the gills. He can't look. He mustn't look. Even the _thought_ of blood is beginning to make him woozy. There's a sharp ringing in his ears that's blocking out most of the conversation around him, which is just as well, probably. He doesn't want to know when Flitwick is going to remove the piece of ice currently _impaling his hand_. Only he doesn't have much choice. He yelps in surprise, reflexively drawing his hand to his chest in reaction to the sudden shock of pain.

And really, he can't help but take a look at his hand. He takes one look at the steadily bleeding hole in his palm and promptly faints.

* * *

Merlin stands back with James and Remus, watching as Professor Flitwick levitates Wes towards the hospital wing on a stretcher with Kalpana following close behind. She'd volunteered to go with him, somehow feeling responsible for the unfortunate little accident.

"What did I tell you?" James declares proudly, hands on his hips. "One hundred percent clearance rate."

Merlin and Remus groan loudly, leaving a whining James in their wake as they head off to continue decorating other parts of the Hall. Merlin has a feeling this isn't exactly the kind of get together Wes had in mind. But he supposes beggars can't be choosers.


	7. Scarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry isn't going to let Merlin leave without a scarf.

Of course it's Christmas Eve when Merlin discovers he's missing a few ingredients in the kitchen. Harry's in the middle of preparing the goose as well as the other offerings for their holiday spread and Merlin can only thank his lucky stars that the shops are still open for another couple of hours. He's hurriedly donning his coat, patting himself down for his keys while digging his gloves from his coat pocket.

"Don't forget this," Harry says, appearing from the kitchen and holding his own scarf aloft. "You need to bundle up."

"I think I would've lived," Merlin chuckles. "But thank you."

"Merlin, it's one of the coldest winters on record," Harry reminds him as he drapes the scarf over the wizard's shoulders. "You should hardly be going out at all."

"I'll be quick," Merlin promises him. "Gone and back before you miss me."

"As though that were even possible."

He says it in such a childishly offended manner, as though the mere idea that Merlin could ever be apart from him without being missed were utter horse shit. Still, the sentiment brings a smile to his face, one that only deepens as Harry uses the two ends of his scarf to haul him in and Merlin allows himself to get lost in his kiss for just a few moments. Though, it quickly turns from a peck on the lips to something decidedly more involved.

It's the one time of year that they can truly afford to indulge in such a thing. With everyone preoccupied with their own holiday plans, Chester King's watchful eye is far removed from Merlin's humble home. This meaning that they can essentially do as they please from the week of Christmas into the New Year. It had always been a time for them to gather together as friends and let loose, but he's certain James and Martin are enjoying this particular perk every bit as much as they are.

"I've got to go," Merlin reminds him, even as he makes no move to step away.

"Do you?" Harry asks.

They're close enough still that their lips are very nearly touching and with each word Merlin feels the soft tickle of his partner's breath. Harry reels him in again to resume their kiss and though he knows he has to leave if he wants to make it in time, his hands still find their way to Harry's waist. 

While Merlin loves Harry for far more than his looks, he's not going to even try to deny that the man is stunning. Classically handsome with a shoulder-to-waist ratio he could dream about for days. Sometimes when they're like this he swears his hands were made to be on Harry's hips, swears he feels grooves and dips molded to the shape of his fingers and palms. 

He maneuvers the other man closer until they're pressed against one another. One of Harry's hands slides up to curl around his neck at the base of his skull while the other still tugs insistently at his scarf as though it were a leash.

"James and Martin will be here in a few hours," Merlin reminds him, breaking away long enough to steal some air.

"Then we've got plenty of time," Harry nearly purrs.

Merlin wavers.

"... _Harry_ ," he groans. "I've got to go get those ingredients. Don't do this to me."

"Don't do this to _you_? Don't do this to _me_ ," Harry corrects him. "You're really going to leave me here in favor of a sprig of parsley?"

"A sprig of parsley you insisted you needed, you muppet," Merlin chuckles.

Harry sighs, putting just enough space between them to rub at his chin thoughtfully. "How soon do you suppose you can be back?"

"Thirty, maybe forty-five minutes?" Merlin answers.

"Hm," Harry hums. "If you make it thirty, we should be able to leave the goose alone long enough for you to tie me up with that scarf when you return."

"Fuck," Merlin hisses.

"Precisely," Harry says with a smug grin. "What you do after that is your choice, since I chose the... _festivities_ last night."

"Christ's sake, Harry, you can't just turn me loose on that note," Merlin groans as they finally move to the door.

"Which is why you should hurry back," Harry reminds him. "I'll see to everything here, you get what you need."

He pauses to wrap the scarf around Merlin's neck properly. His hands linger, his palms warm against Merlin's jaw.

"And do be careful, Callum," Harry insists. "Honestly."

"Always," Merlin promises.

As he steps out into the biting cold, he finds himself ducking into the scarf around his neck. The scent of Harry's cologne hits him like a truck and he feels a warmth inside him that has nothing to do with body heat. 

Thirty minutes, that's all.

...twenty-five.

He can do twenty-five.


	8. 8. Ivy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin considers the loss of his garden trellis and ivy to be worth what came with it.

**[DECEMBER, 2004]**

Merlin sighs slow and soft, his arms wrapped around Harry's middle and his face pressed to his partner's shoulder. Harry is every bit as awake as he is, yet neither of them says a word. He's not sure what there is to be said. Instead, they lie wrapped in one another under the thick duvet over his bed with the dogs at their feet, listening to the freezing rain hammering against the window panes.

There are many things that they could say, but it seems the evening has worn them both out. It's not long after they'd managed to get James to bed in one of the guest bedrooms downstairs, with Lucy retiring to the other. With less than a week to Christmas, Kingsman had called off its unfruitful two-week search for the missing Percival. With his last known status being shot and fallen overboard a boat in the Atlantic, and with no evidence as to his survival they'd had no choice but to declare him KIA. The selection process was set to begin after the new year.

James had been steadily drinking since Merlin had retrieved him from a jail cell for assaulting one Mortimer Gainsborough. Apparently, he and his wife had taken the news of Martin's passing with every bit as much apathy as Lucy had warned him they would. But James had felt the need to go all the same, hoping on some level that the couple possessed even a sliver of love for their son. Seeing him so broken and beaten, Merlin hadn't been able to deny him his wish to get lost in a haze of alcohol, save for when he reached a point where a concern for his health arose.

"I was just thinking of who we'll need to notify," Harry murmurs suddenly. "For the services."

"Mm," Merlin hums against his shoulder.

"Do you know I couldn't think of anyone? Outside of Kingsman, outside his ties here," Harry says, his voice quiet and subdued. "...Christ."

Merlin wants to say something that will soothe him, something which will make it right. But he can think of nothing.

"It's us, Merlin," Harry continues, his voice bitter but weariness sapping his anger. "It's only us. It isn't right. He wasn't even thirty yet, for God's sake."

Just a few weeks shy of it. Martin was the youngest of them—and one of the youngest Kingsman on record—and so it seemed particularly unfair for the hammer to fall in such a way. But life has no obligation to be fair, they both know. It's something Harry is struggling to remind himself of now, Merlin is sure. As he'd had to remind himself with Thomas. And again, with Lee. And now, with Martin. Merlin squeezes him tightly, trying to summon the ability to be strong enough for both of them.

"Harry, I know it's—"

A loud crash steals the words from his mouth as both of them bolt upright, the dogs poised and alert beside them. For it to have been loud enough to be heard over the rain... Whatever it is, it can't be good. They're moving together without a word, arming themselves with the firearms that are never far from their reach. Harry takes the front and Merlin follows close behind, torch in hand as they creep down the stairs. As they reach the ground level, they find Lucy in her housecoat, peering around the corner from her room.

Merlin presses a finger to his lips and motions for her to stay put, though he doesn't miss the glint of gunmetal in her hand. The commotion hadn't been enough to wake James and he's grateful for one less thing to deal with in addition to whatever is waiting for them outside. Together he and Harry creep silently to the sliding door which leads to his backyard. With his gun at the ready, Harry unlocks the door and it slides open with a soft whisper that's lost in the din of the pouring rain.

They maneuver themselves efficiently through the door and at once Merlin is chilled to the bone by the freezing water that rains down on them as though poured from buckets. Harry makes a quick sweep of the yard before locating the dark figure pressed to the side of the house.

"Don't move!" Harry hollers. "We're both armed and I believe you'll find yourself disappointed if you believe you can overpower either of us."

The figure doesn't move, doesn't respond, but seems to be taking Harry's advice. Merlin flicks the switch on the torch in his hand and immediately the beam of light reveals the ruins of his garden trellis. Despite the situation, he can't help the pang of disappointment at the sight of broken wood and crushed ivy—he worked hard to grow the plant and keep it healthy and flourishing. As he shifts the beam towards the house, the dark figure is illuminated. A soaked man in a dark coat leans heavily against the brick wall, ivy still clinging to him after he'd apparently fallen into the trellis, wrapped about him as though it had grown from his flesh rather than soil. He's clearly soaked but doesn't seem to mind the rain quite as much as they do.

"No sudden movements, just put your hands where I can see them," Harry instructs calmly.

Merlin can see the man's lips moving beneath a dark beard, but whatever he says is spoken so softly it never reaches their ears. Harry seems fully prepared to unleash his formidable temper at a moment's notice, but something stops him. There's a line of tension in his shoulders that doesn't have to do with the apprehension caused by their mysterious trespasser. But before Merlin can get so much as a word in, Harry lowers his gun and propels himself toward the man.

There are a few brief words from Harry before he reaches out towards the man, only to stoop quickly to catch him as the man's knees give out beneath him. Harry looks back at him and for a moment, Merlin's struck by how his appearance; chestnut hair soaked and falling into his eyes which are wide and round with alarm, rivulets of water coursing down his face as he stares back at Merlin. There's a strange mixture of emotion in his expression and though Merlin has the what of them, he cannot fathom the why.

"Merlin!" Harry shouts, struggling to keep the man propped up by himself. "Come here, quickly!"

Hearing the urgency in his voice, Merlin doesn't even pause long enough to wonder just what the hell is going on; he merely lets his trust in Harry carry him. He surges forward, doing his best not to slip in the mud as he quickly makes his way to Harry's side. It's only once he's right in front of him that he sees what the fuss had been about. He knows this man.

"Jesus Christ, Martin!?" he sputters.

He ducks to loop the younger man's other arm around his shoulders without a second thought, his mind racing. Martin had been unrecognizable to him. But then, he hadn't been expecting a dead man in his garden.

"Help me get him inside and over to the sofa, I think he's injured," Harry says.

Together the two of them half-carry Martin into the house, dragging him over to the sofa and doing their best to deposit him gently as the dogs crowd around them. It's as they're doing so that the lights come on and Merlin looks up to see Lucy by the light switch, her face gone pale with fright. They don't need to explain to her, he knows; she's already pieced it together.

"I'll get my medical bag and some towels," she says, disappearing back into her room.

"I'm going to try and wake James," Harry says as he straightens. "Try to keep him awake and talking until Lucy can see to him."

Harry looks every bit as startled as Merlin feels, but moves with purpose all the same. Merlin crouches by the sofa, taking in the sight of the man currently splayed along its length. The rain has plastered his dark hair to his forehead and there's a good few weeks worth of growth on his face. Remembering Harry's words, Merlin quickly begins peeling back layers of clothing, searching for any signs of injury. He doesn't have to look far. There's a hole which cuts through the left side of his jacket and permeates each layer of clothing beneath, as well as the book in his breast pocket. Fearing he already knows what he'll find, Merlin unbuttons and unzips until he finds a heavy layer of wrapped bandages and gauze. As he unwraps the younger man's handiwork, he's struck by the telltale scent of infection when the obvious gunshot wound is revealed.

It's clear to Merlin that he'd done his best to care for the wound himself, but if the bullet is still in him... He plucks lingering leaves of ivy off of Martin's clothes, trying to figure out how in the world he'd made it all this way in this condition. Judging by the location of the wound, it's a wonder it didn't hit his heart. The book. He reaches for the thick volume in Martin's breast pocket. It's heavy now with water and blood, a hole straight through it, but it had undoubtedly been what saved Martin's life. He turns the volume over in his hands. 

_Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals & Other Essays_. Merlin remembers this book. One of Kant's works, it had been gifted to Harry by the late Thomas Brampton. Harry had recently passed it to Martin and something about it must have had him jammed up, for it was rare for him to take a book into the field. He fussed too much about damaging them. Seeing the sorry state of it now, Merlin knows Harry will likely be rather unhappy, but that may be mitigated by the fact that the heavy tome had clearly saved Martin's life. It's as this thought is crossing his mind that he hears the low mumbling from his colleague.

"What is it, Martin?" he asks, leaning in to hear him.

His eyes are fever bright as he seemingly talks more to the sofa cushions than to Merlin.

"...not sure if I lost my tail... couldn't lead them to Central..."

"It's alright, you don't need to explain," Merlin assures him. The wet rattle of his breathing has Merlin concerned, wondering just how long he's been in this state. "Just save your breath."

"...just needed somewhere safe... some... all I could think of was... just Merlin... wherever Merlin's..."

This is the first place he'd thought of. When he needed somewhere safe... he thought of Merlin. He supposes it shouldn't be surprising; he's their guide when it comes time for field assignments, so logically it must have made the most sense to Martin. But something about it doesn't feel like simple logic. Now isn't really the time for sentimentality, but the notion strikes a chord with him all the same. He reaches out, plucking one more stray ivy leaf from Martin's hair before sighing deeply and resting a hand on his head. He's safe now.


	9. 9. Baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy asks Harry to help her bake some cookies for Eggsy and her mother.

In general, Harry considers himself to be more of a cook than a baker, but there are certain instances where he makes an exception. And when your protege's young sister asks you to help her bake cookies as a surprise for her mother and brother, you don't say no. Which is why Daisy stands on a step stool beside him, dressed in an apron borrowed from Merlin, which they've done their best to accommodate for being rather a great deal too large for her.

"Like this?" Daisy asks, doing her best to imitate the way he folds the dough.

"Precisely," Harry praises her. "You know, you're better at that than most people I know who are twice your age. Three times, even."

"I watched a lot of YouTube videos on how to do it right," Daisy says very seriously.

Harry has found Daisy to be every bit as entertaining as her brother. She never seems to be short on the wit that only children can seem to possess, always eager to engage him or Merlin in conversation. Usually Merlin. The young girl seems to have taken a shining to helping Merlin tinker in his labs. If Merlin's to be believed—and he always is—she's got something of a knack for it as well.

"It's always good to be prepared," Harry agrees with a nod. "Now then, have you decided which shapes you would like?"

"Mmmm," Daisy hums thoughtfully, studying the array of cookie cutter shapes. "I think the Christmas tree ones. And maybe the snowman ones, too."

"Both excellent choices," Harry agrees, picking out the shapes she'd selected from the bunch.

Together they press the shapes into the soft dough before peeling them out and resting them on the cookie tray. Soon enough, they have an entire tray full of Christmas trees and snowmen loaded into the oven and, pleased with their efforts, sit back to wait while they bake.

Daisy takes it upon herself to entertain him with tea and conversation in the meantime and Harry finds himself surprised by how quickly the time seems to pass. She engages him with what subjects she'd been learning in school and what sorts of things she'd been learning from Merlin and even a story she decided to make up for him on the spot. And in the blink of an eye, the cookies are done and cool and Daisy is eagerly tugging his sleeve to get him to his feet so they can decorate them. 

"We need to save some of them for Merlin," Daisy declares, struggling to maneuver the icing tube with her little hands.

"Oh?" Harry hums, piping icing onto the snowmen. "I thought these were for Eggsy and your mother."

"Yeah, but we need to save some for Merlin," Daisy repeats. "He deserves a treat."

Harry chuckles at that. "Well, I'm inclined to agree with you."

"Can we take them to him after?" she asks him.

"I believe he'd like that," Harry replies.

As he helps her place gumdrops on her Christmas tree cookies, he finds himself reflecting on how much his life has changed in such a short amount of time. If you had told him that one day he would be the head of his organization, baking cookies with a precocious little Unwin girl and setting some aside to take to his husband, he'd likely have found you quite mad. Now, though, it feels as familiar as anything. The wedding ring on his finger feels as natural as it feels to steady the young girl on the step stool leaning over the counter to reach all the cookies with her sticky fingers.

It's a good sort of familiar. The kind he wishes he had been able to settle into long before now. But it does no good to dwell on the past when the present is upon him and the future before him. With a plate of cookies and a glass of milk in hand, he holds a hand out to the young girl climbing down from the step stool.

"Let's see if we can't get Merlin to take a little break with us, shall we?"


	10. Crackers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry. James. A locked freezer, Christmas crackers and a bottle of vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James being his typical ho self lol. Not even freezing temperatures can completely stop that.

James isn't really sure what to make of all this. Here they are, trapped inside a freezer, with only five boxes of Christmas crackers and some frozen beef to keep them company. The operation had been going smoothly enough, right up until their mark was precisely where he was NOT supposed to be and they had to duck into the kitchen's huge walk-in freezer to avoid detection.

The downside to this of course being that the door couldn't be opened from the inside. And since the kitchen was now empty for the next twelve hours... It seemed they were in for a long night.

_"I have to say, this one's pretty impressive; even for you two."_

Typically James might have gone along with Merlin's ribbing, but considering he's freezing his fucking balls off, he's not in as good a mood as he could be. It's embarrassing enough having made such a stupid mistake, the last thing he needs is Merlin's teasing. Correction: the last thing he needs is _Martin's_ teasing, which he knows he'll get once he and Wes arrive to free them.

"Oh, p-piss off already," he grumbles, arms wrapped around himself.

_"Don't take it out on me. You're the ones who thought the freezer was a good hiding place."_

"Merlin," Harry says, shivering beside him. "I second Lancelot's s-sentiment."

_"Mm-hmm I thought you might. Well, you've got to do something to keep yourselves warm, remember. Talking is the best way to stay awake."_

"We're quite up to date on our hypothermia protocol," Harry grouses.

_"Very well. I have your biometric readings here and I'll be monitoring you closely. Let me know if you need anything."_

"A blanket. A cup of tea. A bloody laser," James grumbles.

With a sigh he settles in beside Harry, the two of them pressed shoulder to shoulder to keep warm. Lord, he's not looking forward to facing their colleagues after this. Dunderheads like Gawain aren't likely to let them forget it anytime soon. But it's not as though they're the first to make this kind of mistake. No one's forgotten when Bors got stuck in a laundry chute. Or when Geraint ran straight into a pitfall—sans spikes, thankfully.

"I'm shocked you've gone this long without suggesting see strip to our skivvies to preserve body heat," Harry says.

James snorts. "Even I have my limits, Galahad."

"Well, since it appears we'll be here for some time, what would you like to do to pass the time?" Harry asks.

James rummages among the shelves before pulling a clear bottle out from behind a rack of ribs. "I say we get pissed on this cheap vodka that one of the cooks tipped me off to and open that box of crackers. The man with the worst joke by the time they find us is the winner."

Harry barks a laugh. "It's better than anything I had in mind."

* * *

James knows the alcohol only provides the illusion of warmth, but he's glad for it all the same. Even an illusion is better than being crammed in between slabs of beef, stone cold sober and waiting for their rescuers smug faces. He's pleasantly giggly and Harry's just the right side of drunk where he's just about at James's baseline.

Harry's hardly got a stick up his arse, but he could still use with a bit of loosening up at times, in James's opinion. Even stuck in this stupid freezer, dressed as a waiter and slurring his words, he still manages to remain charming as all get out. It's not the first time James has reflected on how he can see exactly why Merlin fell for him. Harry is an undeniably attractive man—that stray curl falling over his forehead and his eyes glinting with mischief only adding to the appeal. But more than that is the depth of his personality. There's a warm fondness in him that more openly shows itself when he's drunk like this and James can't help but be reeled in by it. But that's Harry for you.

Anyway, now's hardly the time to be getting wrapped up in such thoughts. He has a contest to win.

_CRACK_

"Who hides in a bakery at Christmas? A mince spy."

_CRACK_

"What do you call a boomerang that doesn't come back? A stick."

_CRACK_

"What did the farmer get for Christmas? A cowculator."

_CRACK_

"What do you get if you lie under a cow? A pat on the head."

Harry snickers as James passes him the vodka bottle.

"Actually knew a bloke back at Cambridge who was the unfortunate example of that joke becoming reality," James informs him. "Terrible smell. No one would ket him back in the dorms."

_CRACK_

"Which... Which side of a turkey has the most feathers? The outside."

"Who the hell writes these?" James asks, giggling.

Harry appears to contemplate the question before dissolving into helpless laughter, struggling to get his answer out.

"It's... It's... It has to be... Martin."

James stares at him for about a half a second before howling with laughter. He falls to his side, knocking into Harry, who has tears in his eyes as the two of them cause a ruckus inside the freezer that makes James glad the building is empty.

And that's exactly how Wes and Martin find them. Martin appears to take in the sight of them, drunk as skunks, wearing stupid paper hats and falling over each other with laughter. He quirks an eyebrow.

"You two seem to be having quite the time in here. Should we come back later?" he asks.

James looks to Harry. Harry looks to James. Clearly their whooping laughter isn't the answer Martin was looking for.


	11. Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up in the middle of a grassy field was not on Harry's to-do list.

The first thing Harry's aware of is the excruciating pain that feels as though someone's drilled a hole into the back of his skull. The second is that he's absolutely frozen and face down in the grass. A hazy recollection begins to form as he struggles to get his bearings. He'd been working. Running through the field to avoid someone and... Something had hit him. In the back of the head.

Then nothing.

But why had he been left here? Why hadn't his for sought to finish the job? Or capture him? The pounding in his head makes it impossible to think and he decides to shelf his questions for the time being.

Given that it's now daylight, he can surmise that he's been lying in the grass all night. As he pushes himself up onto his forearms, he can see a fine layer of frost coating everything—including him. His body is stiff and uncooperative but he knows he has to find his spectacles if he wants to get out of there. Thankfully the task doesn't take long, as they hadn't been knocked far when he fell, and seem to be mostly undamaged. With shaking hands, he restores them to their proper place and attempts to contact Merlin, praying the communication system had escaped damage.

"Merlin?" he says questioningly. His voice sounds rough to his own ears and he clears his throat several times.

_"Galahad? Are you there?"_

The feeling of relief that floods his body at the sound of that familiar brogue is enough to make him forget about the cold for a moment. But the sight of his breaths made visible as puffs of steam in the air before him is reminder enough.

"Here, Merlin," Harry answers him. He leans back against a tree, arms wrapped tightly about himself. "I'm not sure what happened—"

_"We lost contact with you abruptly. I could see you through your spectacles, given their position in the grass, and it was clear you were at least unconscious, though we couldn't say just why. Lancelot and Percival are left a few hours ago and should be arriving at your location shortly."_

Harry nods his head but quickly abandons the notion as the throbbing only intensifies. "I was hit in the head with... something. I'm not sure what."

_"How are you feeling? Dizzy? Nauseous?"_

"All of the above," Harry answers. "Cold."

_"I'd imagine you would be. You've likely got a concussion, but you knew that. Mags will give you a proper look over once you're back."_

Typically now is the time Harry would start bemoaning that fact, but currently just the idea of being back home is enough to keep him quiet. A little poking and prodding is a fair trade for being safe and warm. He knows he should care about his assignment, and he does, but he's honestly just too wrung out to be particularly concerned at just that moment.

_"Don't worry about your assignment,"_ Merlin says as though reading his mind. _"It was a pit fall from the get go. We were fed outdated information; there's nothing more to be done there."_

Well, that's a relief he supposes. Though not as much as the sight of James and Martin walking towards him. Their steps leave a trail of green behind them, frost displaced by their shoes as they come up alongside him. Harry gladly accepts the offered hand up, still feeling stiff and ungainly.

"Alright there, Galahad?" James asks with a grin, clapping him heartily on the back.

"I've been better," Harry says dryly. "But I've also been worse so I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies."

"Well, we'll get you home right quick," James says.

"For now, put this on," Martin says.

Harry frowns as Martin shrugs out of his winter jacket, holding it out to him.

"I don't need—"

"Pride never kept anyone warm," James advises him, smiling as he starts walking back the way they'd come.

Harry sighs, accepting the jacket with a nod of thanks and slipping into it. It's not a perfect fit—he's broader in the shoulders than Martin is—but it's more than acceptable as far as getting him a little warmed up.

"You know I don't mind the cold," Martin reminds him. "Besides, I'm not the one who slept in an open field all night."

It's a true enough statement. Martin could typically be talked into taking assignments in regions known for their harsh winter climates when one wished to avoid the threat of frostbite. This could usually be accomplished by taking assignments to sunnier locales for him. The exchange of favors had proved a mostly reliable system for years. Though that isn't to say they haven't had the odd mission or two where Harry or James have returned and needed three weeks to feel properly thawed out, or that Martin hasn't returned looking like a steamed lobster.

The walk back through the woods and to the plane takes another hour and a half, and though he's warmer than he had been previously, Harry finds he's still daydreaming about a hot bath, a cup of tea and maybe a handsome Scotsman in his bed if he's lucky.

"Alright, let's get settled and ready for take off," James says, clapping his hands together as he locks the door behind them.

James busies about, pulling all manner of blanets from seemingly every corner of the plane. While Martin conducts pre-flight checks, James quickly gets Harry onto the sofa and bundled up proper. He chatters on all the while and Harry can hear Merlin chuckling in his ear. Trust the hedonist to know how to get you the most comfortable. By the time James is headed toward the cockpit for take off (since he can not only fly a plane, but land it as well, unlike certain other agents) Harry's feeling pleasantly drowsy, though the ache in his head persists and the chill won't quite seem to recede entirely.

"Take these."

Harry cracks an eye open and is greeted by the sight of Martin holding out a glass of water and two aspirin. It's not going to take care of the pain entirely but it will certainly take the edge off. As he pops the pills in his mouth and flushes them down with water, he sees Martin disappearing further into the cabin. A moment later, James reappears from the cockpit, able to wander freely now that they're able to engage the autopilot.

"Feeling any better?" he asks.

"Much," Harry says. He lies back with a sigh. "What a bloody mess."

"It's bound to happen," James says, shaking his head. "You remember Bulgaria?"

"Mm."

"Not the most enjoyable three days I've ever had."

It's true Harry is hardly the first to end up in this kind of situation, but it doesn't make the whole affair any less embarrassing. Still, he supposes he should be thankful he emerged with little more than a concussion and perhaps a mild case of hypothermia. Martin rejoins them, carrying a steaming cup in his hands which he promptly offers to Harry.

"Here."

Harry stares into the cup. Tea. Only...

"...you're not going to drink it," Martin guesses, his tone flat after Harry's silence had stretched on.

Harry doesn't think that's his fault. Martin knows very well by now that Harry only takes his tea from Merlin. He gets points for persistence but that's about all.

"You are unbelievable," Martin scoffs, shaking his head.

"Now, now, he's had a bit of a rough night," James says, holding his hands up peaceably. "Go easy on the man."

"I will do no such thing," Martin says.

Lying back against the pillows and closing his eyes, Harry burrows further beneath the blankets and drifts off to the familiar soundtrack of James and Martin's arguing.

* * *

"Is Martin still going on about that?" Harry asks.

Merlin hands him his cup of tea, making sure the pillows are propped up well behind him. Morgana had given him a (mostly) clean bill of health. A slight concussion and a minor case of hypothermia, but nothing bed rest wouldn't fix.

"You're taunting a perfectionist," Merlin says with a chuckle. "You know he'll never let it go."

"He should know by now," Harry says, pausing to sip from the steaming mug in his hands. He lets out a contented sigh, finally relaxed now that he's home in his own bed. "I only drink yours."

"We _all_ know by now," Merlin says, his voice ringing with amusement. "Now, how are you feeling? Warmer?"

Harry gives the question some thought. In truth, he can't quite chase the chill from his bones but he'd rather expected that. 

"I could be a bit warmer," Harry says, looking to the wizard pointedly.

"You could just _ask_ ," Merlin says, struggling not to smile.

Harry snorts. "Where's the fun in that?"

Merlin rolls his eyes but the grin on his face belies his amusement. Toeing out if his shoes, he walks around to the other side of the bed and lifts the covers. He slips beneath them and scoots himself over until Harry is able to comfortably lean back against him.

This is what Harry had needed most. Lying against Merlin's broad chest with the thrum of his heartbeat beneath Harry's cheek. Long fingers gliding through his hair, always mindful of the rather sizeable lump to his head. The warmth of the quartermaster's body seeping into his own until they're nearly indistinguishable.

Merlin presses a soft kiss to Harry's temple, nosing at soft curls with a sigh. "Better?"

Harry clutches his mug, a deep feeling of contentment settling over him as though it were yet another blanket.

"Better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so behind. 😱


	12. Eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James's eggnog had always been the highlight of Christmas Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vaaaaague reference to attempted suicide but nothing explicit.

**[DECEMBER 24TH, 2014; MERLIN'S RESIDENCE]**

Despite the date and the pleasant conversation, there's a heavy cloud hanging over the room that none of them can escape. Their attempts at enjoying the holiday feel forced and wooden. In some ways, Merlin regrets having made Martin join them for Christmas Eve—watching him stare silently into the fire as he sits beside Lucy on the sofa, Merlin knows he would rather be alone. And yet, if Merlin had allowed him his wish for solitude, he knows he would have borne and even greater sense of regret.

He never wants to find Martin the way he'd found him when he'd failed to show up for work the day after they broke the news of James's passing. Martin's sensitivity to alcohol is a secret to no one, least of all himself, but the amount he'd imbibed... It could have easily been a mistake. Grief stricken and in his cups, Martin could have easily overlooked just how much he'd been drinking. The alternative is far darker; that he knowingly drank as much as he did, that he'd planned to because he knew what would happen to him. Merlin could have—perhaps should have—pressed him for an answer, but he'd found himself too afraid of what that answer would be. He was too afraid of having his suspicions confirmed.

Instead Merlin had kept him under near-constant watch. Thankfully having Roxy to mentor seemed to have given him some sense of direction, but Merlin worries about the long term.

"Martin? Did you say something?" Harry asks.

They'd heard a soft murmer from his direction and none of them were about to overlook the first thing he'd said all night.

Martin clears his throat. "The eggnog. I just realized I forgot to make it. We have it every year, but James was the one who always made it."

Merlin inhales slowly, wondering if they should change the subject or allow him to speak what's on his mind.

"Don't worry about that," Merlin tells him. With some fondness he adds, "You know how secretive he was about the recipe."

Martin laughs at that, but it sounds hollow.

"He always said he'd take it to his grave," he says.

Merlin feels his chest cramping at the sight of the younger man bringing a hand up to cover his eyes as he sits hunched over on the sofa. Lucy moves closer to him then, resting a hand on his back and rubbing in slow, soothing circles.

"I'm fine," Martin says roughly. "I'm fine. I'm sorry."

But he isn't. Merlin reaches over to lay a hand over Harry's, which are clenched into tight fists in his lap. It's plain to see he's struggling just as much as Merlin is. Neither of them know what to do. There's nothing they can do. This isn't something that can be fixed or made right in any way. Because it isn't right. James should be here with them.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He hears Martin's voice break on the words and Lucy shepherds him towards her. She casts a look in their direction that asks them for some privacy and Merlin rises, taking Harry by the hand and guiding him into the kitchen.

They don't bother with the lights. Harry leans against the counter, pulling Merlin flush against him. Merlin runs his hands up and down Harry's sides, not sure what to do now. Both of their heads whip up at a loud noise—like a wail or a scream or something else entirely—which comes from the den. It sounds like a dying animal, like some deep, primal sorrow expressed in a way that words will never be able to capture. 

Merlin swallows thickly as his eyes cloud with tears. He wraps his arms tightly around his partner, burying his face in Harry's neck and squeezing him as tightly as he can. Harry shifts his face until his breaths tickle at Merlin's ear.

"I love you," he whispers.

Say it now. Say it while you still can. That's the idea that sound had instilled in him. He doesn't know what he would do in Martin's place. He doesn't want to consider it. The fact is that he's considered it too many times already. It's a question he's had to face for years upon years that he still doesn't have an answer to.

Instead he draws back and reaches up to frame Harry's face in his hands. He kisses him deeply, desperately even, with his eyes squeezed shut. He can feel the hot trail of tears coursing down his cheeks and he wants to cut them off before they have the opportunity to continue.

"I love you, too," Merlin sniffles against his lips. 

Harry's thumbs come up to brush the tears from Merlin's eyes, but even in the dark of the kitchen, Merlin can see the moonlight reflected in his eyes. He can see the tears threatening to spill over that Harry won't allow himself. They stand there in the dark, in the quiet, simply holding each other for he doesn't know how long. Perhaps it's been hours. Or only minutes. Either way Merlin is struck by a sudden thought that won't allow him to let go. What if this were the last time he ever held Harry in his arms? What if this were the last time he ever kissed him? What if this were the last time he ever told him he loved him?

It makes him sick. He wonders about James's lasts. Last kiss, last touch... last breath. He quickly puts it out of his mind. Not now. Not tonight.

Eventually they remember they'd left Lucy and Martin alone for who knows how long and decide they ought to return to the den. When they do, it's to the sight of Lucy closing the door to the nearby guest room behind her and hurriedly wiping away her tears with her handkerchief. 

"I've put him to bed," she informs them as they motion for her to come sit between them on the sofa. "I gave him a mild sedative, so he should sleep through the night. Lord knows he needs it, and Roxy will want to see him tomorrow..."

Lucy trails off as she takes one of each of their hands in her own and squeezes them tight, as though she could somehow keep them there with her by sheer will alone. They both lean in close, reassuring her that they're not going anywhere if they can help it. One of them gone is one too many already.

* * *

**[DECEMBER 24TH 2018; KINGSMAN HQ, SCOTLAND]**

"Eggnog~!" James announces in a singsong voice.

He glides into the room like the grand showman that he is, balancing a tray full of glasses of eggnog like an expert waiter. Anyone can tell he's in full entertainer mode, enjoying his favorite holiday with his favorite people. In Merlin's opinion, the broad grin on his face is even brighter than the star atop the tree and a welcome sight.

James has just handed Merlin and Martin a glass when Lucy opted to intervene. Merlin barely suppresses an annoyed squawk as Lucy took the glass from each other and their hands.

"Alcohol is the last thing either of you need," Lucy admonishes them. "Especially on pain medication."

"But mum, it's Christmas," Merlin argues.

Martin takes the less tactful approach. "All I want for Christmas is for all of you to cease treating me like a child."

Harry snorts into his glass. "Then cease acting like one."

Roxy laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her drink, which brings an embarrassed flush to her uncle's face. As Martin promptly wacks Harry in the shins with his cane and the two begin to argue, Eggsy—bless the lad's heart—filches a glass from the tray. He's a crafty one and quick on his feet, so no one notices when he slips the glass to Merlin with a wink. Well, he _thinks_ no one notices, but apparently not even breaking up an argument between two of her boys is enough to fully distract Lucy. She removes the new glass from Merlin's possession as well, narrowing her eyes at Eggsy in such a way that not even his most innocent of smiles can deflect.

"This isn't a joke," Lucy says sternly. "Now, I understand it's Christmas and you'd like to celebrate, but you're both still recovering and I will not put celebrating over your health."

James pauses to press a kiss to her cheek. "Not to worry, mum. I made a separate watered down batch for Martin and our old goat."

"How watered down?" Lucy asks.

"Enough not to cause any complications," James assures her brightly. "I checked with Ginger beforehand; there's very little alcohol."

While Merlin doesn't like being referred to as an 'old goat' anymore than he usually does, the thought is nice. Lucy sighs and shakes her head with a hint of a smile on her face.

"Alright then. _One_ glass for each of you," she announces. "You may be allowed another but I'll decide that after the first."

Merlin glances over at Martin, who offers him a one-armed shrug. Well, it's better than nothing. At the very least they get to join in on some level. But as Merlin takes a sip out of the glass that Lucy had returned to him, he's not so sure that they are participating. He looks down into his cup, swirling the contents around.

"Now, James, I know you said you watered this down, but you also said you put alcohol in here," Merlin says. "I'm wondering: did you actually do so or did you merely glance at a bottle while making it?"

"Dove," Harry says reproachfully. He's not fooling anyone; Merlin can hear the laugh in his voice.

"It's better than nothing," Roxy reasons, patting his hand. She looks to James with a smile. "Uncle James that was very thoughtful of you. I'm sure Merlin and Uncle Martin are very thankful for that thoughtfulness. Aren't they?"

She's smiling at them, but Merlin swears there's murder in that grin. The girl's been spending far too much time with Martin. In any case, they get the message: quit complaining.

"At least _someone_ thinks so," James sniffs. "You ungrateful sods."

"We're just teasing, darling," Martin says, setting aside his glass to grab at his partner's hand. "Thank you, James."

Merlin huffs a laugh as James allows himself to be be pulled down so that Martin can kiss him. If the man had a tail it would be wagging a mile a minute. Alright, so perhaps they've still got a little ways to go before they're back to their usual Christmas traditions. But given the fact that this is the first Christmas they've had with all of them present in years, he supposes he can live with that.

(And admittedly James's eggnog recipe is brilliant, alcohol or no.)


	13. Garland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cedar branches Eggsy holds out to him may as well be an olive branch. After finding out that his parents had made James his godfather, Eggsy wants to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to past Lee Unwin/Michelle Unwin/James Spencer.

James frowns down at his handiwork, unimpressed with his progress. The start of his garland is looking... decidedly lackluster. It always comes out so much nicer when Martin does it. But Martin can't do it this year. The intricate, time consuming work isn't something he can do one handed and considering he can barely hold a pen in his right hand, nevermind write with one, the garland is out of the question. James had watched him do it dozens upon dozens of times. He thought he knew what he was doing. The crooked cedar branches dropping out of place and onto the floor say otherwise.

"You know you can just buy pre-made garland, yeah?"

Looking up, James spots Eggsy standing in the doorway to the library with an amused expression on his face. 

"I'm well aware. Martin usually takes care of this, you know," James tells him, retrieving a branch and trying to tie it back in place with wire. "But since he can't this year, I thought I might give it a go and hopefully cheer him up a bit."

He could definitely use with some cheering up. James worries about how much therapy appears to be taking out of him. If he isn't exhausted from PT, he's more than likely shutting himself away in his room. It seems most of his temperament these days consists of black moods and antisocial behavior. They all knew getting Martin to budge on the therapy issue wouldn't be easy but James can't help but worry at times that it's doing more harm than good. The weight he'd begun to put back on after awaking from his coma seems to have been lost once again and James can read the sleepless nights in the dark smudges beneath his eyes. They sometimes go days at a time without speaking to one another beyond the bare minimum and although James wishes to allow him space, he doesn't want to wander too far.

Given some of the things Martin had put up with from him in the past two years, James considers these things the least he could do. Martin would never put it in terms of James owing him anything but it doesn't stop James from feeling that he does in some way. Martin had somehow seemed to possess a wellspring of patience through James's recovery and James isn't about to do anything less. They just need time, that's all. Time for things to right themselves and time for things to heal. And in the meantime, if James can do anything to brighten Martin's day at all, he'll do it. Even if he's god awful at it.

Eggsy stands watching him for a time, apparently lost in thoughts of his own. But after several silent moments he approaches James and takes a seat in the arm chair beside him.

"Mind if I help?" he asks.

At first, James isn't sure how to respond. He and Eggsy haven't exactly been on the best of terms lately and this is about the most civil conversation they've had in at least a week. But he isn't going to miss out on a chance to get back on good terms with the younger man.

"Lord please," James laughs. "I'm positively butchering this thing."

"I can't promise it'll look any better with my help, bruv," Eggsy warns him with a grin.

"Well, at least I can blame some of it on you if you help," James says brightly.

"How gentlemanly of you," Eggsy snorts.

Good. Smiling is good. Joking is good. Perhaps this won't be as difficult as James had expected it to be after all. As it turns out, Eggsy's actually fairly decent when it comes to doing up a string of garland. According to him, it's not all that different from making daisy chains for his sister. James had been rubbish at making them for Roxy, so he supposes this shouldn't come as a surprise to him. However, as they work together, James can't help but get the impression that Eggsy is itching to ask him something. Well, that's probably why he's here, isn't it? 

"Something on your mind?" he ventures.

Eggsy's face screws up in a thoughtful expression. "I guess."

"Alright. Care to share?"

Eggsy fiddles with the cedar branches, twirling one between his fingers. Whatever it is, it's producing some hesitation from the younger man and James wonders what kind of conversation he's about to get into. But whatever it is, he's ready for it. Eggsy has a right to ask him about whatever he'd like to know.

"What was my dad like?"

James isn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. What was Lee like? It seems Eggsy is testing the waters of his newfound knowledge of James's prior relationship with his parents. He hadn't exactly been thrilled to learn that James had shared a bed with his mother and father and even less so when he learned they'd named James as his godfather. Where had he been all those years, Eggsy had wondered? All those years his mother had struggled to get by, all those years Eggsy had needed a father figure, all those years Dean had terrorized him and his mother.

There had been no easy answer to give him. After Lee had died, James had offered his help, but Michelle had refused it. She hadn't wanted him to throw money at the problem as though that would solve it. And he'd understood that in a way but... well, like he said, there wasn't an easy answer. James isn't all that certain he would have actually known how to help—wanting to help and being able to are two entirely different things, after all. By the time either of them were in a position to talk sensibly, they'd both moved on with their lives. For the most part, anyway. 

It's true James had had ample time to tell Eggsy, especially once he began routinely seeing him once he'd begun working for Kingsman. It's just in those days there never seemed a decent time to bring it up and even if there had been, James was just... not in any state for that kind of discussion. But now Eggsy wants to talk and James isn't going to waste the opportunity by holding back.

"You're a lot like him," James says, still struggling to wrap the length of wire around the bunched cedar branches he holds. "On the surface he was laid back and always ready for a good joke or a bit of mischief, but really he was... kind. Lee was as loyal as they come and always putting others before himself."

"You think I'm like that?" Eggsy says with a half-laugh.

"Listen, I'm not always the fruitcake everyone thinks I am," James tells him with a laugh of his own.

Eggsy gives him a thoughtful look. "I don't think you're a fruitcake."

James raises a suspicious eyebrow at him.

"Well, not all the time anyway," Eggsy amends. He grabs a handful of branches. "There's something else I'd like to know."

"Ask anything you like," James says.

"Do you still love him? My dad, I mean," Eggsy asks him.

James inhales deeply, fiddling with the garland. He feels as though he's being tested here and he's not sure what the right answer may be. But he promised himself he'd tell the truth, not just what he thought Eggsy wanted to hear. 

"I don't think we ever stop loving people," James tells him. "I never stopped loving Lee. Or Michelle. It's just that sometimes things don't go as planned. You may not stop loving someone, but you can grow to love them differently. With Michelle and I it was just too difficult to mend the gap that Lee left, especially with how it had happened, with my involvement in the whole thing. I don't know how she feels, but I still love them both just as much as I did back then. Just... in a different way now."

At first, Eggsy doesn't say anything. Perhaps James has said the wrong thing after all.

"You've got Martin," Eggsy says at last with a nod. "I think if you're happy, mum's fine with that."

"I'm not so sure about that, but I still hope she finds someone who treats her the way she deserves to be treated," James tells him. "She's an amazing woman."

"Don't have to tell me," Eggsy says, looking genuinely pleased.

The rest of their conversation flows easier than James had assumed it would. He'd expected Eggsy to remain angry with him far longer than he had, but it seems he's learned from their mistakes. Holding on to anger, holding onto the silence, it had never done any of them any good. And by the time the garland is finished—crooked and imperfect as it is—he feels as though they've made something more than just a Christmas decoration. Eggsy scratches the back of his neck, remaining seated in his arm chair.

"...want to make another?"

The cedar branch he hands to James may as well be an olive branch for the way it brings a smile to his face.

"Absolutely."


End file.
